On the Run
by MLaw
Summary: Napoleon and Illya find themselves in an unusual situation while trying to escape from members of the Boston Irish Mob. Originally posted for the HOWDOWE Patriot's Day Challenge on Live Journal Pre-saga


Two men stood side by side, dressed in period costumes from the American Revolutionary war. Dark blue jackets, with brass buttons, white breeches, stockings and tri-cornered hats on their heads.

In their arms were balanced replicas of rifles from the time period. They looked all the part and ready to reenact one of the first battles of the war that took place at 6 a.m. on Lexington Green in Lexington Massachusetts.

Yet there was an obvious problem with their attire; one of them was wearing a pair of black laced Oxfords shoes, while the other man, a shaggy-haired blond, was wearing a pair of black loafers; neither of which were anywhere near the kind of footwear worn during the time period.

"This uniform is driving me crazy," Napoleon Solo whispered.

"Why it looks to be a fair fit," Illya eyed him."What is wrong?"

"It's made of...well, pretty coarse, unlined wool and it's making me itch."

Kuryakin swallowed his guffaw. "I am quite comfortable in mine," he smugly replied." It reminds me of my uniform back…"

"Shushhh," Solo hissed."Someone's coming."

Two men dressed as officers appeared, stopping and staring down the two U.N.C.L.E. agents.

"You two are a disgrace!" One growled with an appropriate level of haughty indignation in his voice. "Why aren't you wearing proper footwear?"

The other man addressed them as well." It's jerks like you two who don't take reenactments seriously. I mean come on guys it's Patriot's Day for Chrissakes? Can't you get your acts togethah just for the day?"

"Sorry sir," Napoleon saluted," we'll get right to correcting it. "We were ummm, a little late for bivouac."

"Where'd you get your clothes at a bah-gin basement? He ran his finger along Solo's collar; the man's Boston accent showing through just a little. "Betah get your act togethah or you'll get the boot."

"And you soljah, what do you have to say for yourself?" The other addressed the short blond guy.

Illya knew he was in trouble as these two were taking their roles way too seriously. If he opened his mouth with his mixed accent, they'd take him for British and most likely think him playing the part of a spy...which in reality was half true.

That most certainly would complicate the matter of he and Napoleon trying to lay low while members of the Irish Mob were looking for them.

The agents had intercepted valuable information regarding their activities in Somerville; however, their territory was expanding throughout South Boston and Massachusetts. Though their membership was predominantly Irish, there were others involved of Italian ancestry as well.

Solo and Kuryakin had discovered a large cache of weapons was to be delivered to the docks in Boston Harbor, enough to enable the mobsters to up the ante in a war that had just begun between two of the largest rival gangs factions in the state.

"Sorry for the mistake sir, it will not happen again," Illya quietly said.

The officer hesitated, squinting at him with one eye closed.

"Where you from?"

"New York city."

"Oh okay, I thought you sounded a little funny. You got one of those Brooklyn accents?"

"Yeah, Brooklyn," Napoleon answered for his partner.

"Good, because at first I thought you might be a British spy."

"Me a spy? No way," Illya dared open his mouth again.

"Nah Sean, but he could be a Prussian spy," the other officer laughed. "Yeah, maybe that's what you are because you don't sound like nobody from Brooklyn that I know."

"Guards!" The officer called."Take this one into custody. I think he _is _a spy!"

Two soldiers appeared, aiming their reenactment rifles at the Russian."

"Sorry, but I have to go, my mother is calling me." Kuryakin said.

He swept the rifles out of the way with his arm, and at the same time knocked down the men. Napoleon followed suit, bowling over the officers as well.

As the two took off away from the grassy expanse towards a stand of mature trees; they could hear the sounds of the battle beginning. Looking back; no one was coming after them. These people were too busy jumping into the fray of the reenactment.

"I'm glad they're shooting with blanks," Napoleon huffed as they stopped to catch their breath. They were far enough away from the battle green, but the sounds of cannon fire filled the air along with the smell of gunpowder.

"You realize we are now going to stand out in these clothes once we walk into town?" Illya said as they continued through the streets of Concord.

"No we won't. The locals and tourists will just think we're late for the show."

"Will it not be obvious something is wrong if we are going away from the site of the battle instead of towards it?" Illya asked.

"True. I don't think these reenactors leave until the whole event is over unless they absolutely have to. They're really into the historical thing from what I gather. Still it's a chance we'll have to take as we can't go back to the encampment for our own clothes."

Sensing an oncoming pun, Illya interrupted,"but we will cross that bridge if we come to it? The Old North Bridge I presume."

"Nice try chum but not very 'punny,' tovarisch.' The Old North Bridge is in Concord, about fifteen minutes from here. Their reenactment started around 9 a.m. I think it best we stay away from the reenactment here. Here's something you might not know, the battles of Lexington and Concord were the first of the Revolutionary War?"

"Yes I did, I have studied some of your brief American history. This reenactment thing, I do not understand...why play act a battle that took place long ago? The outcome will not change since they are endeavoring to be historically accurate. War is an ugly thing, why would people want to recreate such pain and suffering?"

"That's a good question partner mine. I suppose it's not just about the battle but the time period, the clothing, food. I guess it's a way to connect with one's past."

"I most certainly would not want to do that, having lived through one war already. I wonder how many of these reenactors have ever experienced battle, real death, or have seen what a bullet, much less a cannon ball can do to a man?"

"Illya I'd love to debate this with you but we need to hide; I think I just spotted Buddy McLoughlin and a few of his goons."

The agents ducked into a shop selling colonial era costumes and struck a pose, pretending to be a pair of mannequins.

"Keep looking," Buddy bellowed out as they passed the store. "They're here somewheres, I can just feel it."

The mobsters disappeared and once the coast was clear Napoleon and Illya prepared to leave.

"Nice costumes gentlemen," a young female store clerk greeted them. "Did you get them here?" She asked, batting her eyes as she tried flirting with the blond.

"They... ermm, belong to a friend," Illya answered her, trying to squeeze past her.

"Really? They look like ones that were stolen from the back of our delivery truck this morning."

"That's a shame, I hope you get them back. These do belong to our friend ...Bill," Napoleon said.

"Bill Covington the veterinarian?"

"One in the same," Napoleon bluffed, flashing her a smile that completely charmed and disarmed her.

"Gee he's a swell guy, shame he's sorta old like you, but your friend here, now he's cute and looks more my type."

Ignoring her slight, Napoleon leaned over to her, whispering in her ear, "He's isn't all there, if you know what I mean?" Solo tapped his index finger to his temple.

"Thanks for telling me," she whispered back, now staring at the Russian with a bit of trepidation.

"If you two are finished whispering about me as if I were not here? It is true my dear, insanity runs in my family," Illya interjected. "Perhaps if we could ask to use a telephone my friend?" He suggested to his partner since they were sans communicators and weapons.

"Yes," Napoleon again turned his attention to the clerk," Miss I wonder if you could do me a favor and let us use your telephone to call for a cab. I left my wallet back at a friend's house and he's still out on the battlefield. He's playing one of the militiamen who emerges from Buckman Tavern and is an actual descendant of Captain John Parker."

Illya was impressed by his partner's knowledge of his country's colonial history and silently nodded his approval.

"Wow, really?" The girl replied, leaning on the counter now, staring dreamily at Solo. "And who are you descended from, anyone in the militia?"

"I am my father's son, you adorable thing," Napoleon touched her on the tip of her dainty nose with his finger. "Now if you don't mind...the phone?"

"Oh sure, it's right this way." She showed them to a back room and once she returned to the front counter Napoleon dialed an emergency number to headquarters.

He identified himself by name and passcode. "I need to speak to Mr. Waverly immediately."

"Mr. Solo, where the devil have you been?," the Old Man barked." You were supposed to check in over three hours ago."

"Sir Mr. Kuryakin and I had a little run in with members of the Somerville mob and have been on the run. We need an emergency extraction."

"Your location?"

"Lexington Massachusetts, at the ummm…"

Illya mouthed the name of the store.

"_Ye Olde Costume Shoppe,_ not far from the reenactment site outside of town." Solo filled in Waverly about the weapons cache in Boston Harbor."

"Very good Mr. Solo. We had inklings of this arms delivery but had no specifics. I will send an intercept team to the harbor immediately. A car will be on the way from our field office there to pick you up in approximately forty-five minutes. Keep yourselves out of sight in the meantime Mr. Solo."

"We will endeavor to do so sir. One small favor, could they perhaps bring a couple pair of sweatpants and sweatshirts with them as Mr. Kuryakin and I are not exactly dressed in what you would call appropriate attire."

"Just what are you both wearing Mr. Solo?"

"Revolutionary war costumes," Napoleon cringed.

Waverly cleared his throat, stifling a laugh. "Well, yes..ahem. Can't have my agents wearing the uniforms of the upstart colonists, can I?"

"Excuse me sir, I think your Britishness is showing," Napoleon quipped.

"Hmm, yes quite. Waverly out."


End file.
